


During all those lonely nights (you were always on my mind)

by giurochedadomani



Category: Trust (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternative title: Feelings Are Weird And I’d Rather Have Cash If That Was An Option, I’m finally using my knowledge of Spaghetti Western as God truly intended, M/M, Mind Reading, Primo has ADHD and so does the author, Schrödinger’s sex à la Sense8, Sorry grandpa, Sort Of, Supernatural elements (there’s a touch of body horror), The Mob, The mortifying ordeal of being Primo Nizzuto, To write something gay, alternative universe, and longing, non consensual voyeurism, oh so much longing, this time featuring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29319579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giurochedadomani/pseuds/giurochedadomani
Summary: Many a night after that one Primo would replay the moment, looking for the signs of danger. He should have known. He should as hell have guessed. He surely should have done something, instead of hopelessly expecting to escape danger hiding in the cracks of the Roman anonymity.That night, though, he keeps giving as good as he takes, sparks flying by everytime he pushes back as the man fucks into him (foreign hands tightening around a woman’s waist, her legs around his back). I hope you enjoy the show, Primo thinks into the night, as loud as he can.And someone, something? listens.
Relationships: (background), (it can be read as one sided but why would you), (truth be told the main pairing of this story), Leonardo/Primo Nizzuto, Leonardo/Regina (Trust), Primo Nizzuto/Repression
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	During all those lonely nights (you were always on my mind)

Ecstasy finds Primo in the backroom of a shady bar, half undressed, bended against one of the walls.

He feels as if he’s floating through time and space, pleasure passing through his body like electricity. His worries, his whole world have been reduced to a couple of corded arms and a brick wall of a man keeping him in place as he fucks into him. His head is empty for the first time that week, but also full of the heady smell of the man’s cologne, the bitter taste of cocaine, and the suffocating, tacky brightness of the room’s pink lamps. Every single one of his nerve endings burns and _his head is empty_ —

(He groans low on his throat when the hand fisted on his hair tightens and another groan reverberates through his mind).

—That’s not true, is it? He’s not alone anymore, not even here.

(The building tension towards his orgasm risks to be asphyxiated under the tight knot of his stomach when he sees a hand that’s not his own carding lovingly through a woman’s mane of black hair, a foreign rush of well worn softness at the touch of lips he hasn’t ever kissed. Primo’s heart sinks to the floor and then lower).

No matter how far away he goes. He can’t escape (how that hand makes its way inside satin, red panties, the arch of woman’s breasts and the curve of her neck, arching up in pleasure as clever fingers touch—).

(They touch—).

Primo makes a needy sound (and hears? someone gasping), as he gives up and reaches down, feeling exposed for all the wrong reasons, shameful down to his gut. But if he closes his eyes, he can imagine that hand around his cock, those puffs of breath against his neck, him biting down at the meat of his shoulder and saying. (“You’re perfect”).

He moans, desperated, when Marcello? Matteo? bends him a little further.

  
“You like that, ah?”, the man taunts. He punctuates it by slamming back into him, and Primo whimpers and tries not to collapse. “Bet you like that”.

  
A _fuck you_ makes its way through the forefront of his brain, making Primo’s heart skip a beat. It sounds breathless, fatidical. Interested despite himself.

Primo paws at the wall, trying to hold onto something as his heart starts beating wildly, anxiety getting soothed by bubbling, vindictive joy. Bet you’d like that , he thinks back. And then he arches his back. “I don’t have all night, come on ”, he spurs Marcello/Matteo on over his shoulder. “Is that all what you really— nnnngh ”, his sneer disintegrates into a wail as the man slams back into him once again.

  
The man takes a brusing grip on his hips as they keep gaining momentum, rhythm gone out of the fucking window, and oh God, oh please, Primo sure hopes it leaves a mark.

_I don’t need you_ , he projects, thighs straining. Then again, louder, _**I don’t need you**_.

  
Many a night after that one Primo would replay the moment, looking for the signs of danger. He should have known. He should as hell have guessed. He surely should have done something, instead of hopelessly expecting to escape danger hiding in the cracks of the Roman anonymity.

  
That night, though, he keeps giving as good as he takes, sparks flying by everytime he pushes back as the man fucks into him (foreign hands tightening around a woman’s waist, her legs around his back). I hope you enjoy the show , Primo thinks into the night, as loud as he can.

  
And someone, something? listens.

* * *

The Stranger stares at his adversary with the tranquility of someone who has already made peace with both God and the Devil. A drop of sweat trickles along his forehead, following the brim of the hat that obscures his piercing blue eyes. The only thing that moves in the road is his Adam’s apple when he swallows, his throat parched under the scorching sun of noon. 

  
His hand hovers over the revolver in his holster.

...

“So that’s why you liked those movies so much”.

More than Leonardo’s voice, what truly makes him come crashing back to reality is the thoughts that surround it. The foreign amusement that infiltrates his mind. It’s as if the adversary tipped back the brim of his hat as he spoke, the smoky gun still on his hand, and looked with vindictive joy to— Primo? Who is now observing from the sidelines, powerless and devastated, how his hero falls dead to the ground; except it’s not the adversary, it’s Leonardo, a mocking grin on his lips, eyes that penetrate his soul and— _This is all wrong_. Suddenly it’s a pitch black night and Primo’s in the dirty, smelly back alley of a Trastevere club, mouth feeling like a trashcan. 

  
He forces air into his lungs. His head beats to the tune of the club’s music, muffled through the wall. Those are not movies, like that, in general, those are _la trilogia del dollaro_ and everybody knows them, and Leonardo should know them too, and _of course_ he likes the Stranger, you’re supposed to root for him, and anyway Primo can only respect a character with such a good marksmanship. _There’s nothing more to it_ , Primo thinks. Projects. Whatever. As he pushes up the  
rail over which he has just vomited, and pushes his hair back, feeling nauseous, sweaty, annoyed, and flushed all the way down to his chest.

He passes the back of the cuff of his jacket over his chin and throws Leonardo his darkest glare.

  
“What _the fuck_ are you doing here!?”

  
Leonardo raises a pointed eyebrow.

“We need to talk”.

  
The dread sitting in Primo’s stomach disappears under a mounting pile of rage when Leonardo’s serious tone gets mixed up in his brain with Leonardo’s worried thoughts, the very beginnings of a _Why do you do this to yourself_ when he gives Primo a once over. _You know what?_ Primo doesn’t want to talk about anything, with anyone, and especially not with Leonardo, at that moment, or possibly ever. He projects the _There’s no need_ with what he hopelessly expects to be a hard enough intensity to hide the _There’s no way it can end well_.

  
He swats Leonardo’s hand away when he reaches for him, ducks to get out of his way and starts walking away, glad that the floor undulates only slightly. His mind finds itself way unsteadier in the minefield of subjects that he’d rather not project in Leonardo’s general direction. He keeps jumping from one to the next as if he’s trying to flee forward, thinking that he doesn’t even like the _dollaro_ movies much, truth be told, because they bring memories of his father telling Salvatore that  
“he’s faster drawing the gun than that Eastwood guy in _Per un pugno di dollari_ , I’m telling you” with an unheard tone of praise, and— let’s just not go there. He prefers _Lo chiamavano Trinità_ , anyway. He wouldn’t mind looking like Girotti, nor having his wardrobe, or now that he’s considering it his bank account. Or a partner like Pedersoli, so big, and strong, and loyal to a fault and— he’s not going down that route either.

“Primo”, Leonardo calls him. Or projects his thoughts, Primo’s not really sure anymore if he’s hearing things or thinking them. He hasn’t ever had a crash after a high so strong and so long as this one. He’s fucking up, isn’t he? Leonardo is going to hate him, more so than usual. It’s devastatingly pathetic that the possibility of Leonardo hating him does such a number on him. But yet again he’s the only person who vaguely tolerates his presence, and it’s so fucking nice to be  
able to get inside a room without feeling as if he should keep his guard up at all times against the prospects that he’s either going to be laughed at or hated upon and— he’s so much not thinking about that, he’d rather take a bullet than keep thinking about that.

  
“Will you calm the fuck down!”, Leonardo insists, grabbing his arm, then pushing him against the wall when Primo tries to get away again. Primo fights back viciously, forcing Leonardo to pin him down. “Holy Mother of God, Primo!”.

_I’m not here for a fight_ , Leonardo thinks, though it feels like a shout, while clutching Primo’s shoulders. He centers his thoughts on… his own breathing? It throws Primo out of such a loop that he doesn’t realize that he’s breathing in time with Leonardo until their surroundings start to draw themselves once again. A group of friends laughing around the corner, a couple fighting as they cross the road on the opposite side of the street, a stray cat moving behind the bushes. The  
clacking of one the heels of a street walker against the streetlight she’s posed against.

  
He pushes Leonardo away, just to have the illusion of space between them (he really doesn’t want to talk to him, especially if he stays two centimetres away from his face, especially when he doesn’t seem to be able to keep him out of his mind). He gives him a little, calculated shrug, body tight with tension.

  
“Talk”.

Leonardo hesitates. He hears him debating himself between options, the eternal _why do you do this to yourself_ leaving space to a more neutral _how are you_ that Primo scoffs at before the other can even think about opening his mouth. Leonardo sighs, ends up saying: “Stefano didn’t know where you were”.

  
“Didn’t know Stefano had the interest”, Primo replies, carefully casual. Busy with his university friends, Stefano is. Makes less than half the money Primo does and still manages to act as if he’s somehow superior. I don’t live with them anymore. _It has been months since the last time I talked to him. If you wanted to get a hold on me, you could have come and shouted my name in Piazza del Popolo and get the same result, you idiot_.

Primo paws the forefront of his jacket, searches for a cigarette and fishes the lighter out of his pocket, but he stops on his tracks when Leonardo’s wave of relief almost knocks him out. Oh, good God.

  
“What did you fear, exactly? How was I supposed to do it? Like, oh, yeah. Cugino . You know how I told you I would not bring shame upon your house with drugs. Well, _turns out I hear voices in my fucking head!_ ”.

  
“ _Shut the fuck up!_ ”, Leonardo counters. He throws a worried look to both ends of the street, and what’s getting his panties in such a twist? It’s not as if they have giant posters over them calling everyone’s attention on the fact that they can read each other’s minds. If there’s anyone looking, they’re only seeing a junkie being told off. _I was worried you’d get yourself into problems by telling the wrong person_. Primo ignores Leonardo’s concern, builds a shield with his distrust, shoots him a dark look when he says: “You disappeared out of nowhere. What did you want me to expect?”

_Don’t flatter yourself, you’re not that fucking special_ , Primo projects, finally taking an anxious drag from his cigarette. He had planned to leave for Rome for ages. Discovering that Leonardo was fully aware of what he was thinking after that fatidical crash during the storm didn’t weight at all in his scheme (Primo letting himself be fussed over by the side of the road, skin crawling at the touch of Leonardo’s hands as he checked that he was okay, the contact so foreign, but also not daring to move a muscle just in case Leonardo stopped, thinking that it’d be so cool, totally impossible, but so cool, if Leonardo didn’t do it out of a misplaced sense of obligation towards Salvatore, if he really did want to—). _Why are you even complaining about? Me disappearing made the problem vanish from your plate_. “I wanted you to leave me the fuck alone. I don’t know how to get the message across any more plainly”. 

“Come back”. _You’re not a problem_. Now that would be a fucking first. Primo would laugh if he didn’t find so tiresome that Leonardo is trying to manipulate him with such an obvious lie. As if Primo doesn’t remember with crisp clarity every single instance Leonardo has agreed with Salvatore’s permanent complaints about him. _I’m everybody’s problem, including yours_. “There’s good work. Easy work. Less dangerous than anything you can find here”, Leonardo insists. If he doesn’t think that Primo can take care of himself, he should be man enough to say it to his face.

  
“I’m good where I am”. Leonardo doesn’t have any right to judge him, Primo angrily projects as the other counters his petty memory tour by forcing him to ruffle through a recollection of these past weeks: Primo in back rooms of clubs of questionable reputation, Primo in shadowy back alleys surrounded by dangerous figures, the taste of cocaine and bad booze mixing up in the back of his throat, and the burn of the rough cover of a dirty sofa he’s fucked into scratching out the permanent feeling of nakedness at the idea of his thoughts being exposed. _You deserve better_. It’s Primo’s way of having fun. Leonardo comes from a small, isolated, backwards village in the middle of the fucking Aspromonte, what could he possibly know about it? Besides, what the fuck does he expect that someone is going to do in order to get into the pants of someone like Primo? Invite him out to a dinner at fucking Aventino? (there’s a flashing image in his mind, his father shouting: “You thankless brat, you don’t deserve—”). Primo takes a long drag, focusing on the smoke burning up his throat.

“We can figure something out”, Leonardo tries again. Primo receives the distinct impression that Leonardo knows about his father, if that’s what is getting Primo so worried , that it doesn’t take a genius to widely guess that Salvatore’s disdain takes a toll on him , and that if Primo’s deep, dark secret is that he... doesn’t look at girls with interest, Leonardo is not in any position to judge (strong arms at both sides of a thin waist, hands resting on the bark of a tree, the touch of stubble against his face as the distant voices of people singing at the village’s square fill his ears, memory so hazy to really see who he’s making out with). I’m not here for a fight, Leonardo repeats. “Trust me, I’m the first one who wants this solved”.

Primo observes him intensely, warily, feeling sick to his bones, heart beating quicker at every thought Leonardo doesn’t seem to have a problem in plucking from his brain. “I don’t need you”. His mind bends over every angle that could explain away the other’s openness and twist it into a lie: Salvatore demanding Primo’s presence to act out as his mad dog in his latest negotiation, Salvatore requiring Primo as a suitable scapegoat for his anger after a failed plan, Salvatore urging  
Leonardo to tie a loose end Primo has somehow managed to forget. He feels as if he’s got a speaker instead of a brain, thoughts blasting over whatever he could pick from Leonardo’s mind.

  
“I’m not forcing you to come back”, Leonardo says, hands open. _But I’m also not just giving up because you’re in a mood_. Primo is not a spooked animal to be soothed with a pat, thank you very much. If Leonardo gets any closer, he’ll break his fucking arm. “Look, I’m staying at the _Residenza_ , in Borgo. Let’s have lunch there tomorrow, okay?”

_I swear to God you make things so difficult. I’m not lying._

He hates him, _he hates him, **he hates him**_. Primo sees Leonardo disappear into the night before lighting out his cigarette and heading to the other side of the street, strangely quiet except for the clacking of heels behind Leonardo’s back.

* * *

There should be carnage. Signs of a fight, at least. Leonardo’s things spread far and wide through the hostel room. Broken chairs. Maybe a cracked window.

  
Primo seeps during the hostel’s morning shift change into the tidy, spotless room, remembers (a woman’s hand gripping his throat the night before, his head hitting back the wall as he tries to push her arm away, his hand ripping off the curtain) perfectly attached to the window’s head (when the force of the chokehold makes him get on tiptoes, hand pawing at anything that can serve as a weapon).

  
He surrounds the room’s crystal table, heart on his throat, visualizes (himself crashing onto it, pain searing through his entire body as he tries to crawl away from the woman, hand settling mindlessly on one of the crystal pieces) from its perfect, shiny top, (its jagged edges piercing his skin as he grabs it as a makeshift knife).

  
The carpet is deep, dirty yellow. He stares dumbly at it as he takes a couple of steps back (doesn’t have a drop of the pool of blood he recalls lying over as the woman straddles him, forces him to drop the jagged crystal piece with a painful grip with a hand that looks more like a claw and grins with a smile that goes up to her ears and then).

Nothing.

Perhaps he has imagined the whole thing. Maybe he just spent the night in someone’s bed, cocked out of his mind. He has heard what a bad trip can do to someone’s brain, surely— Surely if he calls Leonardo’s home, he’ll pick up and ask him, tired and annoyed, what mess he needs help out of now.

  
It’s possible that he has even constructed the whole mind reading thing on his own, and that’s why he doesn’t keep on receiving the unsolicited fragments of Leonardo’s psyche as he goes through his morning family rituals, Regina kissing his cheek, Francesco smiling up at him as he ruffles his hair, the sweet smell of a cup of a cup of macchiato over the kitchen countertop.

  
He reaches out with his thoughts, as he’s been doing for hours, although this time, among the radio silence.

  
There’s a growl.

**Author's Note:**

> [This is my tumblr](https://giurochedadomani.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


End file.
